WESTCHESTER OPINION

WESTCHESTER OPINION; Rock and Roll Is a Fundamental

Susan J. Gordon; Susan J. Gordon lives in White Plains.

Published: April 23, 1989

SOMETHING unexpected happened to me on my way to an empty nest. I knew I'd miss a lot of things when my sons left for college. But I never thought I'd miss their music.

I had expected to miss the rest of the ruckus, especially during the most recent years, with two teen-agers in the house. In fact, I had become fairly used to the loud bang of doors slamming, boys vaulting up and down stairs, cars screeching in and out of my driveway and telephones ringing late at night.

But recently, I've been feeling sad and lonely, bereft of other sounds I never thought I'd long to hear - the loud pulsing pounding of drums, the throbbing booms of synthesizers, the twang of guitar strings and the thunder of rock music slamming out of oversized speakers. Everything electrified. Everything larger than life. I'm not a big rock music fan. The first time my sons went to a real rock concert, I went with them, to see for myself how horrible the scene really was.

And it wasn't half bad, except for the deafening volume of the music, which I managed to bring down to a tolerable level by pushing wax stopples into my ears.

I watched my sons and hundreds of other kids clapping, dancing and shouting to the music. Long gone were the days of ''Hush Little Baby'' and ''Where Is Thumkin?'' They have been replaced by the passion of ancient blood pulse-like poundings and songs with titles like ''Heart Too Hot to Hold'' and ''I'll Sleep When I'm Dead.''

Some people condemn rock music, saying it leads to loose morals, wild sex and heavy drugs. But it didn't happen that way in my house. Music was as fundamental to my sons' lives as putting on shoes. They rarely did anything without music playing nearby.

Peter would flip the switch on the radio in the kitchen and scramble his eggs in concert to the beat. I watched him click the fork tines against the sides of a metal mixing bowl, building up to a rapid staccato until he poured the eggs into a sizzling pan, swished them around, scooped them out, and deftly deposited the eggs on his breakfast plate.

Upstairs, Edward worked out on a rowing machine, his strong arms moving back and forth, back and forth and his head going up and down in steady rhythms that matched almost magically the music blasting from his stereo.

Both sons are now at college - gone for months, although not quite gone for good. I miss them and I miss their music. ''Listen to me, listen to me,'' their music would demand. Hear the power and explosions and hear the sheer loud rocketing sensations of it all. Hear the joy of our lives, it was telling me. This is our affirmation that we are really here. And that we are really alive.